What does it
mean to dream u were Berryman? I have lived orgies and will one day make
pageants. Bright windows with continual feast: those eyes’ swift flash as I
pass. O I make rows of you, streets of you, processions, spectacles … From “I’m
a rocket ship!” to “I’m princess Spiderman!” in the span of an hour. But le BIG
dilemme: Light Cone aux Abattoirs vs Rosa Luxembourg / Agone à Terra Nova.
There’s no need to replicate and yet realism. I think my brain may fall out. I
added numbers and filled out little boxes and cut along perforated lines all
day. But just once I really, really, really want to be able to fill out the
little box that asks for “Fishing Boat Proceeds.” If you were to ask me how
this will end she says in a terrible car crash, at sea, holding hands, and
survived by our five hundred children who have left directions for our
tombstone to read SAVIORS OF ALL MANKIND. We want to watch the sunset we say
out loud. All we want is the sunset the sunset the sunset the sunset the sunset
the sunset. I said Would you like to hear a good joke. Look at my beard! I said
but you were eating oatmeal. Otherwise proceed to the bank. I want to give you
the horse bladder part of this thing, but I cannot figure out what part of this
thing the horse bladder is. A critical button functioning. You must love gloves
and give up legumes. And maybe three electric eyeballs. I have been
stressing more than anything and watching gobs and gobs of TV. I am realizing
if this psychotic novel is my Justine,
then I need to as well write a Juliette,
of which some of the material was in that chapbook I AM SHARON TATE. In my notes I’m kind of confusing when Grosz is
speaking or when Lacan is, but she is often speaking through Lacan. “But look:
my shirt is 1,600 dollars and I don’t give a fuck.” I mean, “I like purple
’cause purple is like red to me. I like red too, but purple is just like red.
Don’t it look just like red to you? Think about it.” The novel tells the story
of a minor but self-aggrandizing provincial official who decides to buy Lenin’s
corpse from Russia and install it in the local capital in order to increase
tourism. Along the way he discovers a village full of people with highly
unusual skills: a one-legged long jumper, a blind woman who can hear and name
dropped objects, a deaf man who sets off firecrackers around his head. Some
Chinese sometimes do eat puppies, as the presence of organized dog farming and
items on restaurant menus rather directly attest. According to Nora Pärt,
that is, the last chord in Cantus seems
not to want to come to an end. It stands still, without growing or diminishing.
Something has been achieved and now one doesn’t want to let it go. The content
of the entire work strives toward this point. When the plateau of this cadence
has been reached the chord does not want to stop. The same thing happens at the
end of the first part of Tabula Rasa:
always this final chord that appears to want to go on forever.

30.01.2013

Do you remember
how easy and sad it was to be young and defined by our bicycles? Maybe it’s
Lamp Day. The pillowcases cradled my head like the earth a very young carrot. Inside
Geryon something burst into flame. A passing waiter slapped the bill down on a
small metal spike on the table. Helen said, “Have you seen the TV commercial
where the housewife is being stoned to death for using the wrong detergent, and
this voice comes from out of the burning bush to egg the stone throwers on?”
“Yes,” said Oreo. “The bush is your father. Have you seen the one where the
housewife gets a rash when a little man jumps out of her toilet bowl?” “Yes.”
“The bowl and the rash – your father. What about the one where the man is
thinking of telling his wife she has dandruff, while the woman is thinking of a
good way to break it to him about his b.o.?” “The b.o. and the dandruff – my
father,” said Oreo. “No, the woman.” Helen explained that Oreo’s father was now
the king of the voice-over actors ... Of by that to the this into of them.
Chinese coins with with holes in the center. Black smoke from a structural fire
belched up over the docks. One door is the demand of another. “the
laundry-basket lid is still there / though badly chewed up by the cat / but
time has devoured the cat / entirely.” Goodbye sweet old prince. He’d be the
first to tell me to quit being so sad. Read Materialism
& Empirio-Criticism. Read Collected
Works Volume 38. And now (especially) read Raya Dunayevskaya’s book on
Women’s Liberation. I / saw the river, cloaked
/ in plastic bags ))))))))))))))))))))))))))
pink orange light in sky above the still dark ridge in the window just opposite
the unmade yellow and blue bed, sound of wave breaking in channel below it, man
on phone finding a manifestation of the real in recent work, noting that “grey”
and “gray” appear to be two different words. [Break: Drink Hot Water with Lemon
Juice]. These are your brutal chemicals. Yet if you cannot say to another you,
“I love you,” how can you ever say anything anymore anywhere in this world? “There
are wild elephants in that country, and numerous unicorns, which are very
nearly as big. They have hair like that of a buffalo, feet like those of an
elephant, and a horn in the middle of the forehead, which is black and very
thick.”

29.01.2013

“Is it good,
melatonin?” “Yeah!” OK. PLACE A DISPOSABLE PLASTIC KNIFE ON THE EDGE OF A
TABLE. WITH YOUR LEFT HAND HOLD DOWN THE PORTION OF THE KNIFE WHICH IS ON THE
TABLE. WITH YOUR RIGHT HAND PLAY THE KNIFE& BY BENDING DOWN THEN
RELEASING THE PORTION OF THE KNIFE WHICH OVERHANGS THE TABLE. PLAY SOMETHING THAT SOUNDS LIKE MUSIC.
Reed suggests Strauss waltzes, but I don’t know any. Feral Chi. Topple / Glassy / Hopes / Biases / Arise / Around / Antimatter / …
/ Tiny pewter speck / Been dead, bones heave. Rain by my throw in a wood jelly.
An incredible film, don’t get me wrong, it just required a superhuman
suspension of disbelief. Which at the time was fine, because “special effects”
like George Reeves flashing across the sky were meant to be “special,” outside
of the ordinary, and didn’t need to look as if they were of this world or
obeyed its laws of physics. It’s like some old joke: “What do Georges
Bataille, Nick Land and Harry Potter have in common?” Punch line: they cannot
speak the name of that “which cannot be named”. Well, of course, this
is a ruse, for the truth of it is that they all name it, yet do they? What is
materialism? More specifically what is libidinal
materialism? Or, closer yet, What is base ;materialism?
And, to top it off: What is Lord
Voldemort, he-who-must-not-be-named? Hyperbole, superbole? A switch and
bait routine? I too have been nuts, I think the woods is made of many minor
keys. Thus far we have only spoken of the air handling side of the unit. A big
blue color takes place in that space. Misquote. The personality syndrome and
there is one turns out to be a splendid undertaking. ‘Among the lost
manuscripts of Franz Kafka are some letters from a doll, written to an unknown
girl. Kafka had encountered the girl while walking in a park in Berlin in 1923,
in the company of Dora Diamant, his last companion. The child was weeping in
despair at the loss of her doll. He talked with her. Unhesitating, he told her
that the doll was not lost, but travelling. She had sent him a letter.’ True or
false: Chocolate is Mexico’s great contribution to Surrealism. With unbroken
incantations in the voice of a lion prepare (on wild rocks) a soup made of half
a pink onion, a bit of perfumed wood, some grains of myrrh, a large branch of
green mint, 3 belladonna pills covered with white swiss chocolate, a huge
compass rose (plunge in soup for one minute). Just before serving add a Chinese
“cloud” mushroom which has snail-like antennae & was grown on owl dung. So.
“We hereby declare this to be a most awesome assembly. In the name of the
people of this place — which is to say: IN OUR OWN SOVEREIGN NAME — we command
you to immediately LEAVE US THE FUCK ALONE. If you do not do so, your violence
may be repelled, your authority will be mocked (which may result in a permanent
feeling of humiliation), and we know for a fact that the injuries you inflict
upon our persons shall afflict each of your souls for the remainder of your
days. We prohibit you from fucking with our most awesome assembly. If you
attempt to arrest us, history shall prove your folly absolute. If you do not
leave, LYRICAL AGENTS will be used, which may result in unmitigatable
sensations of bliss. GO HOME. We liberate you in the power of, well: in the
power of YOU declared by WE in our sovereign autonomy. WE COMMAND YOU TO BE FREE
OF YOUR COMMANDS & remind you above all to LEAVE US THE FUCK ALONE.”

IN THE
NOISE

& WHIP OF
THE

WHIRLWIND

The new time that
is urged as coming in history is already present in its own prose.

28.01.2013

I crap you nope,
to quote Geoffrey Cruickshank-Hagenbuckle. Googamoogah’s mother’s mom shits a
live baby into the corpse’s lap, countering Death with anal birth. Holes burn
through the celluloid (see Fight Club,
80 years before) as He sharpens the tip of His tail with a pocketknife. The
whacked off whatnots end up as eye-candy décor. This Lamb shift is a result of
the interactions between the electron and the constituent quarks of the proton
as described by QED. These interactions are slightly different for electrons
occupying the 2S and 2P energy levels and the resulting energy shift depends in
part on the radius of the proton. However, in muonic hydrogen the Lamb shift is
much more dependent on the proton radius because the much heavier muon spends
more time very near to – and often within – the proton itself. As for myself,
what interests me about Marx, at least what I can say has inspired me, is Book
2 of Capital; that is to say
everything that concerns the analyses of the genesis of capitalism, and not of
capital, that are first of all historically concrete, and secondly the analyses
of the historical conditions of the development of capitalism particularly on
the side of the establishment, of the development of structures of power and of
the institutions of power. I think of the creature’s “dun” eye opening in the
book, his attempt to smile. Victor’s breakdown in the courtyard. Exactly. You
just have to wade through the plague ground of the present as the floodwaters
rise from the reversed drains, sewage-riven, bearing tissue and garbage, the
present tense resembleing you in all its spumey and spectacolor. That is,
bioluminescent bacteria would be inserted into their own interesting-looking
blown glass cells, forming a living lamp. Tubes would connect the bacteria to
the life-sustaining sludge at the lamp’s base. The sludge would come straight
from your bathroom and kitchen. War is over if you want it. The mercury should
be washed (say ten times) with nitre and distilled vinegar and likewise dried
(twice), and the mortar should be constantly heated just so much as you are
able to bear the heat with your fingers. Grind the mercury 1/4 of an hour with
an iron pestle and thus join the mercury, the doves of Diana mediating, with
its brother, philosophical gold; most women who sleep with me end up blacking
out at some point during our love making. As do I. Newton’s alchemical
manuscripts remained “unknown” until the 20th Century, at which point they were
purchased by John Maynard Keynes. Did I say Keynes? There are twelve
stories about Fatty Arbuckle. We know how he spent (wasted, drank through,
destroyed loved ones, burnt beds, was seen in nickelodeons nodding off on junk
and gorging pig-like on duck and busting heads and breaking hearts) his final
decades. Because of the underground nature of his later years (basements and
brothels and dank laboratories and warehouses and seashells) we can only hope
certain makeshift records (napkin poems, restroom wall sketches, carvings in
trunks, nails through voodoo dolls, digits sent to ex-lovers, whispers floating
back off ocean breeze, legends from El Salvador, French myths, personally
performed porno in blurred film stock, corpses in floor boards, postcards to
cousins, a jam session on tape with Fatty on tenor) appear from the rivers of
far drums. I am twenty-four years old. I have degrees and a job and an apartment. I have never learned to grocery shop. Almost two years ago I stood in my kitchen covered in facepaint and wearing my Swarovski-encrusted riding helmet from my teenage years, at a loss; a camera was on. I didn’t know how to look at it. My roommate’s parents kept us well-stocked in arbitrary necessities. In the cabinets, we had many canisters of sugar. I am the reincarnation of Lyudmila Pavlichenko, a Soviet sniper during the second world war, who is credited with over 300 kills.

27.01.2013

OK. So. The divine purpose of law is ... to wake life to the endlessness of its immanent reality by consciously laying to sweet sleep all the purposes that bind it, above all to itself. #38 [Awesome footnote]: As figured in Nietzsche’s “heaviest weight,”
the absolutely binding-liberating principle of the eternal return of the same (Gay Science, trans. Josefine Nauckhoff
[Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001], 194) and in Meister Eckhart’s
formulation of the divine whylessness of life: “it lives without Why, because
it lives for itself. And so, if you were to ask a genuine man who acted from
his own ground, ‘Why do you act?’ if he were to answer properly he would simply
say, ‘I act because I act’” (Complete
Mystical Works, 110). In other words, the only purpose of life, which
itself properly belongs only to what lives without principle — “Hoc enim
proprie vivit quod est sine principio” (Eckhart) — is to arrive at the
purposeless Reality: “Reality is Existence infinite and eternal. Existence has
no purpose by virtue of its being real, infinite and eternal … Everything — the
things and the beings — in Existence has a purpose … Their very being in
existence proves their purpose; and their sole purpose in existing is to become
shed of purpose, i.e. to become purposeless. Purposelessness is of Reality; to
have a purpose is to be lost in falseness … Love alone is devoid of purpose and
a spark of Divine Love sets fire to all purposes. The Goal of Life in Creation
is to arrive at purposelessness, which is the state of Reality” (Meher Baba, The Everything and the Nothing [Beacon
Hill, Australia: Meher House Publications, 1963], 62). In these terms, the
purpose of law or the law of law, is to bring to end all the purposes that
separate life and living. The connection to sleep is articulated by Meister
Eckhart: “If a person were really asleep for a hundred years, he would not know
any creature and he would not know of time or images. [Only if you so sleep,]
then can you hear what God is bringing about in you. This is why the soul says
in the Book of Love: ‘I sleep and my heart is awake’ (Sg 5:2)” (Teacher and Preacher, trans. Bernard
McGinn [New York: Paulist, 1986], 293). The proverbial sweetness of sleep, an
absolute law of life whose intimacy therewith is shown in sleep’s suspension of
everything save breath, is sister to the wakeful captivation of contemplation:
“For by a wondrous sweetness was she [Mary] held; a sweetness of the mind which
is doubtless greater than that of the senses” (Augustine, Sermons on the New Testament, 54.1). And as anxiety is the enemy of
sleep, so is sleep a reflection of the irreconcilability of worry and justice:
“At peace with God and neighbor, thus good sleep demands. And at peace too with
the neighbor’s devil! Otherwise he will be at your house at night” (Friedrich
Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathustra,
trans. Adrian de Caro [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006], 18). The
gravity of sleep indexes the sweet immanence of eternal justice, precisely
because ‘justice never sleeps’: “suppose you feel tired and fed up and that you
go to sleep. What is it that you are trying to do? It is nothing but to try to
take refuge in God — your natural and inherent state. The whole Creation
therefore has this conscious or unconscious tendency to take shelter in God the
Over-Soul … by entering the state of sound sleep” (Meher Baba, God Speaks: The Theme of Creation and Its
Purpose [New York: Dodd, Mead & Co., 1973], 101). Augustine similarly
correlates the sense of divine justice and feeling for the inner abyss in
commenting on Psalm 41:8: “Deep calls to deep [abyssus abyssum invocat] at the
sound of your cataracts … This is how wisdom is imparted, and faith is learned,
when one deep invokes another. Holy preachers of God’s word call to a deep
abyss. But are they not a deep abyss themselves? They surely are, as you know.
The apostle says, It matters very little to me that I am judged by you or by
any human day of reckoning. What a deep abyss he is! But he goes further: Neither
do I judge myself” (Expositions of the
Psalms, trans. Maria Boulding, 6 vols. [New York: New City Press, 2000],
II.251-2). In other words, the apparent virtuality of abyssically resonant
communication is a sign of the hidden reality of eternal justice as well as a
real medium of worrylessness. Beautifully enacting this principle, Augustine
opens the commentary on this line by addressing the (invisible) reader as a
visible presence by means of whose interest his own commentarial effort
proceeds without anxiety: “I may be able to get through this whole psalm if you
help me by your concentration, for I can see how eager you are. I am not too
worried about any fatigue you may feel as you listen, for you can see how I am
sweating in the effort that speaking costs me. And as you watch me laboring,
you will certainly help me, for you know I am laboring not for my own benefit,
but yours. Go on listening, then; I can see you want to” (Expositions, II.251). This points significantly back to questions
of relation between media and sweetness, virtuality and justice. Is not the
theory of communication that Augustine here arrives at and dramatizes not a
form of ‘post-human’ justice predicated upon the as not [hōs mē] structure of
apostolic identity? Is not the as not — as opposed to the hope-structure of the
as if, which is actually only a mechanism for ‘having one’s own way’ in a bad
way upon the faulty foundation of assumption that the hoped-for always already
is not — precisely the hopeless ‘hope’ of the virtual as mode of relation that
calls from the depths to release identity into sweet wayless abysses of a life?
See Eugene Thacker, “The Wayless Abyss: Mysticism and Mediation,” Postmedieval 3 [2012]: 80-96. Is not
eternal justice coterminal with arts of wayless media, above all the taste of
one’s own tongue, whose aimless aim empties world of the correlational,
fake-it-till-you-make-it structure of capitalist life (hell-creating virtual
performance of salvation) in f(l)avor of the fullness the cephalophoric
paradise where law both is as if it were not decapitated and is decapitated as
if it were not?: “Justice without law is not the negation of the law, but the
realization and fulfillment, the plērōma, of the law” (Giorgio Agamben, The Time That Remains: A Commentary on the
Letter to the Romans, trans. Patricia Dailey [Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 2005], 107). Affirming these questions, Scott Wilson provides a proper
figure for such media, one whose beauty lies precisely in the abyssic
alreadyness or radical immanence of its ‘perhaps’: “Perhaps some time in the
future, some hard-bodied, hard-wired assemblage self-designed to survive the
lifeless expanses of time and space will sense the sense the soft sweetness of
a-life penetrating it” (The Order of Joy:
Beyond the Cultural Politics of Enjoyment [New York: State University of
New York, 2008], 173). True dat. But I still want to save the planet and fuck up them rich folks.

Dark rooms and
light rooms. And every notebook from time one to time two found and flung. The
ink bleeding and the mouth bleeding. The cells sharp and concerned. Corporeal. Not
a code but a signal. Tinged. I keep a blue bottle. Inside it an ear,
medallions, kindnesses, parachutes, kisses. In my land, a small god named
Cocijo, where he urinates a river is born. Arch flowing into arch flowing into
arch, and through the last arch, what was dumb will speak. After all, it is the
halos that tell us who the saints are. He poured bleach down a sink with frozen
pipes behind it and now the bleach has nowhere to go and my house smells like
fucking Auschwitz. I closed off that room and it does have a motorized ceiling
vent but we’re getting nowhere. Maybe I should just pour that hydrochloric acid
toilet bowl cleaner from the dollar store down there and get it over with.
(Fall asleep with hands guarding hills and old woods inside your sweater,
softer wood eating into harder sand — a soft world means a thin barrier) “I
want us to be like that 95-year-old oven,” you say. Big cement lions on both
sides of an overpass bridge. What was the story about the boy who had little
boxes in his eyes and he would send them up in the sky and each box had
sunlight inside it for the moon who couldn’t find the sun because earth was in
the way so the boy wanted a rainbow in the shape of one circle as big as the
sky and as colorful as no wind so his little boxes could fly through them? “That
puppy is so cute I could eat it! Wait, what?” The rules of Camover are simple:
mobilise a crew and think of a name that starts with “command”, “brigade”
or “cell”, followed by the moniker of a historical figure (Van der Lubbe,
a Dutch bricklayer convicted of setting fire to the Reichstag in 1933, is
one name being used). Then destroy as many CCTV cameras as you can. Concealing
your identity, while not essential, is recommended. Finally, video your trail
of destruction and post it on the game’s website -- although even keeping
track of the homepage can be a challenge in itself, as it is continually being
shut down. True poetry is hideous,
because it is base communication … Poetry does not strut logically amongst
convictions, it seeps through the crevices; a magmic flux resuscitated amongst
vermin. Zagat and NYC DOHMH grade signs on tinted plate glass windows //
garbage day sludge, bonus for the smell // these common large-leaved weeds
wilted in heat wave // no chicken bone hunting today, she feels this is an ugly
break from routine // totally fried Bachelor’s Buttons//who has the courage to
pull out their appliances // I did, “let’s never let it get that bad again” // …
[oh yeah] … // I remember being hostage to my desire with only a jar of Nutella
to last the weekend. It was Tiziana Terranova who first suggested Tarde. I was
trying to think through these ideas I had about the contagions of network
culture. I had, up until that point, been trying to develop an assemblage
theory approach to networks. Another important thing about Tarde’s role
in Virality is that he does
not distinguish between nature and society or similarly between biology and
culture. He helped me as such to break through the artifice of
metaphorical contagion which makes it seem like the biological is always
invading the social, at least where biological language and rhetoric seem to
impose themselves on social phenomena. We came from surfaces. / We encountered
sudden weavings in the two patterns of latitude and longitude. / We threw
ourselves into weavings, forming designs; we raised our heads then found love.
/ Wearing gaudy clothes / we circulated, crossed borders then regained
someone. Dove song in my eardrum / doves thrum in my ear low / dove’s sob
and my ear thrum / doves throb in my ear’s song / my ear’s song my blood low /
dove’s song in my blood’s song / love hollows my ear / here Venus your bird. If
cumulative behavior defines the construction, and that construction’s
accretionary (aleatory) behaviors are its manifest tactics and actions, a
building, or a body, as a meaning-free map, redrawn to make of itself the a
priori object. This broke part you rope to / scrape you all outside still /
when you grab as touch drowns. THIS is not a man vision / THIS is not a Blake
vision / THIS is the Vehement Desire of Form / TRIVIA ! you’re in a
suit of clouds ! ... My mouth of itself gathers foam, / hammers “same,
same, same,” her eyes prize the fatness of my throat, milk seeping / from the
corners of her lips, her nostrils, fairly pouring forth her throat in
propulsive / waves against my face, I turn on my knees, arms linked behind
me with comrades, / creativity is intrinsic to law like a cloud is intrinsic to
snow, snow to blood, which means / also to have died to law ... Love loves
difficult things / We’re on our way! “Cause there ... there’s heaven you
... Can you make ... that you ... talk ... That’s ... the problem [...]” The
quartz fashions a nappe around its axis. The crystal taches quickly from the
friction. The rock is a fraction of some other stone. Nitrides mask the
etchants. The crystal was embedded. The roche once was rached. Each face is
false -- irregular, inconstant. The rock is just. The rose aches. The cusp is
hastate in its jut. A ridge knaps from the back of the neck, where it tapers to
a wedge. The quartzes gestate as they hutch. Accretions seek the furthest edge.
The stone is asleep, but not for long. The difficulty of accounting for harm.
And in stumbling is at work. New forms of civic life. And then my brother
and I made a fire outside and the year turned.

26.01.2013

“Gestalt by any
other anonymous sweetener,” as well as “a ball of nose bleeds as white as —
microphones, planets in unfortunate orbit, where adults are light fixtures with
“fogbow” and “infinity mists” or moments when “a nasal capillary bursts, / a
cabernet stream curves / around your inferior lip.” “Everything carries the
courage of Capri Sun, of string cheese” rather than being normative. “It’s like
being kissed hard on the brain by an angel with a strap-on.” When my kids were
little, my wife read the entire series out loud to them. One time I walked by
the room and all three were weeping. “What's wrong?” I asked. “J-J-J-J-Jack
died!!” More wailing. “Who’s Jack?” [Carry me along taddy, like you done thru
the toy fair] “The the the the ... the DOG!” Irrevocable black, irrevocable
white / … / teeth in sky / … / How many times / to be women or woman and /
woman and man and / man woman / … / black milk spurt destroyed / across every
straight line / … / and I’m lying there, black green and white / … / and a
crest of red / bites at the head of the board / spitted fuchsia on lavender
thighs. The formula is a simple quarter-power exercise: You take the mass of a
plant or an animal, and its metabolic rate is equal to its mass taken to the
three-fourths power. 1.5 billion pulses or heartbeats. I’ll explain how this
works down below, but the point is, this rule seems to govern all life. Later I
make a potion with tajá blossoms from the lagoon and I summon Cobra Norato. “I
want to tell you a story. Shall we wander in those trimmed islands? Pretend
there’s moonlight.” The river choked in a ravine. The road toad is spying on
me. In other words, “I came to Carthage, where a caldron of unholy loves was
seething and bubbling all around me.” Those with winged sexes cut their hair
military style. “Fon-gu!” Winged or wingèd. It was at the far edge of the far
edge. Dread snake Podiac / … / dew rat / … /
… / zylocaine pontoon meat cement /
… / the major hover reason major / … / lifter lace bead mega-shovel. “The
historical process maximizes a hide of consensus, like these tanneries — / odiferous,
outskirts — to live nearby the skinning factories / chiffon of the living,
working, mouth, tongue / scudding — wet blue, blue blue sky, cascade pools, drenched
splashing child / biocide: pentachlorophenol — resource demure, tissue of cells
begin to hear / chromium — lungs to breathe out objects / leftover leather
turned into glue —feeding on silt, feeding on bones — barbed wire / when
diamond found, eye put out, hard bark, evidence bare foot, climb cliff face / difficulty
of stepping back from atmosphere — elicit / osmosis through skin, woven hair,
veins / components of the engine: cylinder head, valve train, / transformers to
regulate light, incandescent, starlight, sun at noon / treaties remains
etcetera — compression where there were terms — of / agreement where there were
— the corn needs the be harvested / largest collection of Impressionists / now
we make mounds of paper / laminate causation” … On this day in 1941, A Philip
Randolph officially announced the March on Washington. It worked. It was
part of things. OK. Time to listen to a higher-fidelity version of Beuys’ tonband in filzstapel [audio tape in
stacked felt], the stummes grammophon
[mute phonograph], which displays a covered phonograph record, perhaps with a
recording of Beuys’ felt­wrapped piano (felt, of course, is a material known
for damping sound, as it’s used around the hammers inside a piano). Though
we’ll never know, because the swing­arm and needle have been replaced by a
bone, bluntly inverting Rilke’s hallucinatory dream of playing the jagged
coronal suture of the skull with a phonograph cartridge. Which is or is not to say that “The dynamics of low-frequency temperature anomalies depend on whether a density signature exists (Iselin 1939; Liu and Shin 1999; Schneider 1999). Temperature anomalies with a density signature are governed by planetary wave dynamics, whereas those that are density compensated by salinity anomalies behave as a passive tracer in the upper ocean. Density-compensated salinity and temperature variability is known as spiciness (Veronis 1972; Munk 1981) with hot and salty water having high spiciness ...”

25.01.2013

Out on the
grounds the bizarre went on and on. You were there. I was there. We were so
much there that we were “There.” We felt hairy, yet, for all that, the table
continues to be that common, every-day thing, wood. But, so soon as it steps
forth, it stands on its head, and evolves out of its wooden brain grotesque
ideas, far more wonderful than “table-turning” ever was. It is late here &
the midnight howls to the lavender fields, France’s heather, to nourish the
night & bed down its blooms in winter’s watchful hands of snow. This is
about comic books. This is about orchis simia. Dracula gigas. “DOWN WITH
HIERARCHICAL POOP, UP WITH CAPS LOCK.” Here is the recipe that earned me a
dance with every woman in the ville, and the hearts of all the mothers.
Flirting Abuelitas hinted I should come calling on their nietas, pressing me
with photographs whose subjects were avatars for every panaderia calendar I’d
ever seen except without the arrow in a breast. Ruth saw a beautiful moth on
the white sloth. Toot! Toot! Thump! Thump! 3’34” of shrewdly collected silences
from the lead­in tracks on ten John Cage albums from Büchler’s record
collection. These grooves are like the canine musicians in Franz Kafka’s 1922 Forschungen eines hundes: “they did not
speak; they did not sing; each of them re­mained silent — almost concertedly
silent — but they conjured music from thin air.” That thin air, as well as the
music conjured from it, is what Duchamp would term “l’inframince”, which could
only approached by examples, such as “the noise made by corduroy pants”. “That’s
why when in Portland, we read too much coffee man and when in NYC we read it
too.” It’s like Jack says: The Darwinian environment is a robust lifestyle
exposing the hashish of space to gain a hilltop on seamless mannerism, or maybe
it’s more like walk until you reach the color red. You’ve looked at another
person that way yourself, with nothing
but
black bank of clouds, tran-
quil waterway
earth flow overcast sky —
immense darkness
a battering of
wings,
For we have stepped into the sacred areas
and wept over our waste procedures
which is will have been being our transcendence. “If artworks are alive in
history by virtue of their own processual character, they are also able to
perish in it … Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz; buzz, buzzz.
Dancers shrieking one by one.
Shit / Enters into it only as an image
Blind guesses.
If it were
spelled ‘mune’
I gave you [I
give you] my imaginary [I mean real unfucking] hand.”